My Legendary Girlfriend (30 page)

She ignored my aside. ‘Splitting up shouldn’t be amicable. Not if what you had was love. It’s not the way love works; well, at least the kind of love I’m talking about.’

Kate really was Winston Churchill and I was the British Nation. I would fight the enemies of our love on beaches, street corners or supermarket car parks. In short, I was roused.

‘I love you,’ I said.

‘I love you, too,’ replied Kate. ‘I can’t bear to be away from you. I miss you. This is going to sound weird but even though we’ve only known each other a weekend, I feel like we’ve created a million memories together. I’ve gone over everything you’ve ever said to me again and again in my head. I love your voice. It makes me feel safe.’

‘When did you realise?’ I asked.

‘That I loved you? When you told me the story about the worms dying and how you tried to save them. I thought to myself – that’s the man for me!’

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, really. I like the way you talk about your childhood. You seem incredibly fond of it. I like that. I can tell that you’re special. You notice things differently to other people. You torture yourself for not being this go-getter kind of person, but you are what you are, so why change? Even though you don’t think so, you
are
important and you
have
made a change. Look what you’ve done to my life in three days. Before I spoke to you the biggest thing on my horizon was trying to work out how I was going to afford to pay back my grant cheque. Now all I’ve got to worry about is you.’

Kate asked me when I’d realised that I was in love with her. I rolled the question around in my head, momentarily sitting down on the bed to aid my thinking processes. ‘I didn’t decide,’ I said shakily. ‘It just happened. When I picked up the phone I realised that out of the billions of people on the planet, you were the one I wanted to speak to the most. It was like the deepest part of me took control and said what it felt, unafraid of embarrassment or rejection or any of that other stuff that normally leaves me paralysed with fear. I didn’t think. I just was. Normally I find it necessary to have a three hour debate with myself just to decide what flavour crisps to buy, and here I am making the decision of my life purely on instinct. I kind of feel like Stone Age Man. Quick, I feel the need to hunt and gather.’

Kate laughed. ‘I know exactly what you mean. Y’know, I didn’t need three minutes to think about my answer. The minute you asked me I knew the answer was yes. A mate of mine, Becky, does psychology at Cardiff and she told me this fact: apparently when you’re asked a question, whether you want to or not most people answer straight away in their heads and then spend the time available to them trying to make sure they’re right. The instant you asked me I knew the answer was yes.’

‘So what do we do now?’ I asked.

‘You ask me properly,’ replied Kate.

‘What do you mean? Get down on my knees?’

‘Yes. And be quick about it.’

‘Okay. Kate . . .’

‘Are you down on your knees?’ enquired Kate doubtfully.

I was astonished at the depth of her insight into my personality. ‘How did you know I wasn’t down on my knees?’

‘Well, were you?’ countered Kate.

‘No, but that’s beside the point,’ I laughed. ‘You ought to trust me, you know. I’m your husband to be.’

‘And I’m your wife to be so you’d better watch out. Hurry up.’

I got down on one knee.

‘Look up as if you were gazing straight up at me,’ said Kate.

‘Okay, I’m looking up as if I was gazing up at you,’ I said. My knee began to wobble. I focused my attention on the right-hand corner of the curtains. ‘I’ve even got my hand outstretched as if I were holding your hand. “Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”’

‘Yes,’ said Kate matter-of-factly. ‘Now it’s my turn. I’m down on my knees and I’m holding out my hand as if I’m holding yours and gazing up at your beautiful face. I love you, Will. Will you marry me?’

‘I, Will, will.’

We both laughed.

There was a long moment of silence when I felt neither of us really knew what to say or do next. Kate wasn’t playing around, this was for real, which made me feel excited and exhilarated. I had so much adrenaline shooting through my veins that it wouldn’t have been enough to simply pace around the flat trying to expend it, I wanted to run, to Brighton preferably. Over the moon? I was high jumping the Milky Way and sprinkling star dust in my hair!

‘We’ve got a lot of things to sort out,’ I said, drawing a deep breath in an attempt to steady my breathing. ‘I’ve got to tell my parents about this and sort out how I’m going to tell the school that I’m leaving. I know this is going to be hard but I think we ought not to phone each other again today. Let’s just wait until I come over to Brighton tomorrow morning. Then we can talk until we’re blue in the face. I think we both need some time to get our heads around this; plus, I’m afraid the phone bill is going to end up so large we’ll have to take our honeymoon in Skegness.’

‘I like the sound of a week in Skegness with you,’ said Kate joyfully. I closed my eyes and tried to encrypt that enchanting sound in my head. ‘But I suppose you’re right, we do need to calm down a bit. Okay, let’s make a pact we won’t call or speak to each other until you come to Brighton . . . unless there’s an emergency.’

‘What sort of emergency?’ I asked.

‘You know, deaths, births, fires, pestilence, irate parents.’ There was a brief pause. ‘I love you,’ said Kate as a good-bye.

‘I love you, too.’

6.34 P.M.

I was so filled with
joie de vivre
that I wanted to tell the world that I – yes, me, William Kelly, cynic
par excellence
– had found love. In the end, however, I decided against informing the inhabitants of Archway of my newfound love. Instead, for some considerable period of time I lay very still on the bed, listening to the sound of my heart beating until hunger drove me into the kitchen. My evening meal consisted of two slices of dry toast as I didn’t have the energy or inclination to ‘cook’ and I’d used the last of the Flora in the construction of my Pot Noodle sandwich.

The piles of exercise books propped against the wall which all required marking pricked my conscience, compelling me to propose the suggestion that even if I wasn’t going to school tomorrow, I should at least fulfil this small requirement of my job description. I didn’t mark them, of course, as in truth my motivation had less to do with professional pride or guilt than it had to do with avoiding calling my parents, my mother in particular. My newfound positive attitude to life, however, wouldn’t let me kid myself – not any more. I was determined not to worry. I could tell my parents, my brother, my Gran, my friends – without fear of what they might say – because finally, I had something I could believe in.

‘Mum, listen,’ I said, employing the same tone of voice I’d used four years ago to tell her that Tom had broken his leg playing football.

‘What is it?’ she gasped, immediately recognising the gravity of the situation.

I cleared my throat to postpone the inevitable temporarily. ‘I’m getting married.’

My mother was silent. She wanted desperately to believe I was joking. ‘What for? Who to? Do I know her?’

Questions. Questions. Questions. This reaction was typical of my mother. When faced with a problem her natural instinct was to interrogate her subject until she was better informed than even they were. It was like
Mastermind
only in reverse: her chosen speciality was my love life, but it was she who got to ask the questions and I who had to answer them. This was very weird.

I told her the story from beginning to end. She listened attentively, but it was clear that the story made little sense to her. In her world, things like this just didn’t happen.

My mother’s first words were: ‘Oh, Will, what is it? You haven’t got her . . .’ I knew she wouldn’t finish the sentence. I contemplated finishing her sentence for her just for a laugh, but I feared the missing word’s shock factor had the potential to put her heart in arrest, if not kill her on the spot.

I comforted her. ‘No, you’re not going to be a gran. You’re going to be a mother-in-law.’ She let out a sigh of relief. ‘It’s nothing like that. It’s love. I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone.’

‘But what about your job?’ she questioned. ‘You’ve only just got going. Won’t they have something to say about running off to Brighton?’ Again, this was classic ‘my mother’. Practical considerations were always top of her list; while all things spiritual were right at the bottom, just below embroidered toilet roll covers.

I explained to her what I was going to do about my job and even as I spoke it was plain to me how flimsy and ill conceived my ‘plans’ were, but it did nothing to shorten my stride towards making them happen. I told her more details about Kate: how her laugh sounded like summer; her breath like the breeze on a beautiful day; and most importantly of all, how I truly believed she thought the world of me. My mother remained unmoved.

‘Don’t go throwing your life away, Will,’ she said losing control of her voice. She was close to the Edge. I decided to be more careful with my words. She had never thought it necessary to need much of an excuse to cry, and with a situation tailor-made for the shedding of tears on her doorstep, unless I could convince her what I was doing was the right thing, she would break down. I’d never made my mother cry before. And I didn’t want to start now.

‘I’m not throwing my life away, Mum,’ I said warmly. I looked around my sad, messy little flat. This was my life. This was what I was giving up. Nothing. I became angry that she couldn’t see for herself how unhappy I was here. ‘I’m not throwing my life away,’ I said acerbically, ‘I’m getting married. There’s a difference, you know.’ Before I’d even come to the end of the sentence I regretted it. At first Mum didn’t say anything in reply; I thought I’d managed to escape retribution, but then she started to cry.

I felt awful. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s a big step, you know,’ she said sobbing. ‘You shouldn’t do things like this lightly. Look at what happened to me and your father.’ I wanted to say I’d rather not look at them because it would’ve been a clever thing to say, but I didn’t because I’d already hurt her more than I thought I could endure. Instead I kept quiet, dwelling upon my parents’ marriage. As much as I loved them both, they weren’t particularly good advertisements for holy matrimony, but neither were they particularly good advertisements for joining the human race. In the end, I decided, it made no odds.

‘Yeah, I know it is,’ I said. ‘And I’m not doing it lightly, Mum. I won’t be any more sure in ten years than I am right now, because I am 100 per cent sure.’

‘What’s her name?’ she asked.

‘Her name’s Kate.’ The words came out so quietly that I wasn’t sure she’d heard them.

‘Kate what?’

My mother wanted more details, they were the only things that made sense to her. Facts, figures, information – The Tangible.

‘Er, I don’t know,’ I said faltering. I tried desperately to remember. ‘It’s Freemans. Like in the catalogue. Kate Freemans.’

My mother couldn’t believe this. ‘You’re getting married to someone and you’re not even sure about their surname?’

I looked at my watch. The second hand
was
moving, the watch’s mechanism
was
ticking but time felt like it had stopped.

‘Listen, Mum,’ I said, deciding I’d had quite enough. ‘I’ve told you now. You’re obviously upset. We’re not getting married right this second so there’s plenty of time to get used to the idea.’

She didn’t say anything.

‘Look, Mum,’ I added, ‘before I go I’ve got something else to confess. I think I’ve knackered that saucepan you told me not to take.’

She put down the phone.

‘I’m getting married.’

My dad remained silent. Unfazed, I continued talking, though it was like communicating with a brick wall. ‘Look, Dad, there’s nothing to worry about, okay? I’m twenty-six years old. When you were twenty-six you’d already been married two years and you had me to look after. I know you think I’m being rash but I’m not. Do I sound like I don’t know what I’m doing?’

He remained silent. And from past experience I knew why. My dad never liked being put on the spot. He liked to consider things in his own time before passing judgement on them. Not that his considered reaction would have been any more promising than his unconsidered, but at least given his own time he would have known exactly what he wanted to say.

‘Marriage?’ he said, unsure of his words. ‘Why? Why this way? Is it because of the divorce? The divorce had nothing to do with you. I thought you were okay about it.’ It wasn’t like my father to use pop psychology to come up with a causal link between the divorce and my getting married. He didn’t believe in conditioning or the influence of environment. He once told me that everyone should be responsible for their own actions and not getting enough love or attention was no excuse for being a thug. ‘You can’t excuse Hitler everything he did just because his mother made him wear short trousers,’ he announced one day, more to the television programme which had provoked this reaction than to us, his family.

‘I don’t know, it just is,’ I said, focusing on why marriage was the answer to all my problems. ‘I’m fed up with all the what-ifs life throws up, Dad. I’m fed up of them all. I’m fed up with waiting for life to happen before I can have a life. If I don’t do this one thing the way I want to do it then I really will be a failure. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted. I can’t let go.’

‘Can’t it wait a while?’ he said, bitterly. He was angry now and so was I, but not about what he was saying. I was angry because it had taken me so long to work out where I’d been going wrong all along.
All this wasted time that I’ll never get back again.